“Great grief! No!” exclaimed Jimson. “Not in a thousand years!”
“Can’t we get some of the colored men to help?”
“I reckon we could. The hotel’s more’n a mile below yere on the other side and we might strike off across the river slantin’ and hit the island,” Jimson said slowly.
“Le’s try it, then!” cried the excited boy. “I’ll run stir up the negroes—shall I?”
“Better let me do that,” said Jimson, with more firmness. “Almiry! gimme my hat. If we kin do anything to help ’em——”
“Oh, Paw! look at them flames!” cried one of the children.
The fire seemed to shoot up suddenly in a pillar of flame and smoke. It had burst through the upper floor of the cottage and was now writhing out the chimney; but from this side of the river it still seemed to be the hotel itself that was ablaze.
Curly had forgotten his idea of running away—for the present, at least. He remembered what a “good sport” (as he expressed it) Ruth Fielding was, and how she and her chum might be in danger across there at Holloways.
If the hotel burned, where would the people go who were in it? With the river rising momentarily, and threatening every small structure along its banks with destruction, and no boats at hand, surely the situation of the people in the hotel must be serious.
Curly went down to the edge of the water and found the big bateau. There were huge sweeps for it, and four could be used to propel the craft, while a fifth was needed to steer with.